Poems are :
- Hope
- Remembrance
- The Void
- Her muse
Hope
sweet slumber is in the air, from where, stifling sun along much shine seems fresh, feels warm and precisely clear.
The day unfolds, collected hope it beholds. A hope, that is entangled in fears, weaved with desperate worries and pathetic cries, yet which became stronger, surviving toil and tears. Dapper cap is what it wears. a hope, in conditions like this, still choses to exist. Surpassing any fluke of an exit, persist. A hope that still exists.
It knows no bar, it keeps the happy, keeps the sad. none left like door ajar. As it adds value to life. Hope: It's a good thing; goes the saying, which penetrates misery, kills the bleakness, in a way that resonates with slaying.
Tomorrow is supposed to be fated, Ah atleast excited, when hope is on. It is everything, for one and for all who rejoices and hops into hope. Even for lovers who elope, for farmers who crop so on and so forth. Hope has an utter significance, being possible, plausible and one of its kind.
Remembrance
How beautiful is that , when a peculiar smell reminds you of a place, a flower enlightens you about seasons, a taste tells you about the time gone, a song of old dances you to nostalgia, a feel makes you remember, an instance aware you to introspect, a victory embraces you with pride of the past, a smile happens for no reason, a defeat engulfs you with sadness, you already have experienced.
when a naive talk of the past enlarges our happiness, an old picture and video come our way, a road we walked through has changed all along, a small mud house is a justified aesthetic.
How beautiful will it be , when curiosity in this poem raises a bar.
The Void
Of late, he hates -- the gist of all his fears but still he suits himself up, for understanding the concrete depths in them. In depths, they say, the meaning is to be found. about the unknown dominance that perpetuates the limits of our being.
The fear, which is directly proportional with the torturous time. The anxious fury burdens with anytime anxiety and the stitch doesn't save nine. The reasons and explanations are but none. He tries to divert his nerves, gets himself occupied with a few waiting ambitions. but yet he doesn't. the short breathlessness still suffocates, not an agora, nor a claustro in phobias - but a kind that never vacates.
The late hours of dusk scares to its best, he juxtaposes and think and he concludes no cure, consciously observes : the sky above turned dark from pale azure. the mental temperament seduces like never before. he's still out in the dark, seeking depths by each limb.
Something still by demeanor, small by skull - he sees, known for the abrupt vigilance it keeps; a nocturnal bird but vague it appears a burrowing owl resting within a yard it is and for fear he prepares. Omen or is it a call from heavens beyond? Has it come for the rescue? Or for me?
the owl flies to and fro, preys upon the devious beings. the beings, who have ventured out to absorb the boy, frighten and eat him to the gut. Then the owl returns back to the bamboo-top it hails It preserves and contains the boy, who knows not. It scares him but so does it care and protect. It is the depth he has craved to master in his lows.
The evils which are -- not, which are but unseen. the trepidation of the long is gone, the sole state of being is new and nourished. thus, the fresh winds have now blown.
Her Muse
she finds meaning in a word but she doesn't know words are the men who often bow to present their promising nuptial vows
she feels flattered and struck in awe as if she is the symphony upon whom the youth and their prime falls like no
hers is a charm to claim infectious smile to rather blame. say - easy going gestures to name her wrath teaches to seep in the things and forget about the old obsolete sins.